Full of Grace
by Praxid
Summary: Beth escaped her captors, but not without a cost-one she didn't fully understand for a very long time. But one thing was clear, as she fought to survive in the woods, alone: nothing would ever be the same.
1. The Tree That Owns Itself

_I'm finally back with a new story-Full of Grace. This is about Beth Greene, who has always captured my interest. I think it's time to delve into her head a bit. So a few notes, before we start-this story is a character study-it's **not** a romance. There will be no romance of any kind in these pages-in keeping with my withered up, shriveled heart._

**_Also: and this is important-this fic comes with a strong trigger warning. It frankly discusses violent themes, sexual and otherwise. It won't be graphic, but it will continually return to these themes. If you are concerned that would upset you, you shouldn't read the fic. I don't want to cause you any distress or anxiety. If you aren't sure if you should read it, you can PM me and I can answer any questions you have._**

_One last thing: I'm really extremely sorry if I haven't gotten back to you and you've messaged me-I've been having some bad bouts of illness and anxiety (and illness caused by anxiety). I have found it really hard to keep up with my inbox. But I do read all your messages and would especially love to hear what you think about this new offering. I value everything you have to say and I very much want to hear what you think about my work. _

_It's been a long time since I've written much, and it's time for me to start again. Here we go._

* * *

_The Tree That Owns Itself_

Beth stared at her hands.

She'd lost track of how many days had passed since she'd escaped from the men who took her. A week. Maybe two. She didn't know. But regardless of how long it'd been, her hands were still just _mangled_. Covered in cuts, and deep scratches. Gouges from the splinters she'd had to work out, bit by bit, after she escaped. The scabs still cracked, sometimes—opened up and oozed blood and left stains on her skin.

Those wounds were deep—so deep that Beth had no idea how long they'd take to heal.

Some of her split fingernails were starting to grow out, by now—the bruised skin underneath left heavy marks on them, like the rings you see on a tree stump. The narrow ones that mark a bad winter.

And her right index finger—that was the worst. She'd lost the entire _fingernail_, there. Ripped it straight off, trying to get out of their trap. It was only just starting to grow back in, now. A pale sliver, sprouting from the bloody quick like a little, crescent moon.

Beth looked away. Wanted to forget about her hands for a while, if she could. Leaned against the attic window, and looked out over the night. Over the still buildings—just shadowed lumps in the distance, following the contours of the hills.

And she hummed to herself. Listened to the sound of her voice echoing off the rough beams above her head.

* * *

As the sun went down, Beth started to notice some lights in the distance.

They were way down the hill, at the edge of town. Hazy and dim, through the film of dirt on the tiny, porthole window.

She pressed close against the glass. Stared past the shadowed clusters of rooftops, and down towards those lights. There were pretty faint, clustered together in a few, far-away windows. Probably Coleman lanterns, or something—turned down low.

Someone was _down there_—more than _one_ someone. She thought they might be in the church—Beth could see the faint outline of the bell tower against the night sky. The windows had a gothic curve to them—the light showed them in fine relief against the darkness.

A church would be a nice place to spend the night. Pretty. All that cool, grey stone and open space. She imagined that if you got up real close, the lights would make the stained-glass windows glow.

Her attic was nothing like that—the place was ugly, and musty, and hot. But that was ok. She had to remind herself about what was important. It was isolated. Sheltered.

Safe.

In any case, those people were way down there and she was hidden away up here—so Beth figured she could just ignore the lights in the church, for now. She turned away from the window. Got up, and paced the room. Saw her own shadow on the floorboards, flickering in the glow of her single, tea-light candle.

And Beth wandered around. Tried to distract herself. Listened to her boots as they made the planks creak. Stepped around boxes and trunks and musty, old things in dropcloths—all stacked up in piles, under the low-pitched roof. Tried to be careful not to hit her head on the sagging insulation, and the old beams.

She used to love attics, as a kid. On rainy days, when she couldn't go outside to play, she'd make Shawn and Maggie take her up in the one at home. There were things to explore up there, and it was a great spot for games.

Her favorite had been hide-and-seek, back then.

And it struck her, a moment. Even though Beth wasn't a little kid, anymore, she was still hiding, up here.

It wasn't as much fun as it used to be.

* * *

Beth rifled through a cedar chest, up in that attic—looking for the stuff to build a bed for the night.

Chests like that always seemed to hold the same kind of stuff—linens and towels and sheets and blankets. It was like they _grew_ inside those things. Like you could put in a single pillowcase, and years later, if you opened it up again, there'd be a whole garden of sheets and napkins and hand-knotted lace. They'd just sprout there, all on their own.

And there was quite a harvest in the trunk Beth opened. Almost right away, she found an old quilt—thickly tufted, sewn by hand, and covered with blooming flowers. It was carefully folded on top of some tablecloths. Had a name embroidered on one corner:

"_Sally Lee Schwartz – 1952_"

Beth touched the lettering, there. Traced the threads, where they'd been pulled carefully into place some sixty years ago. Tried to ignore the split nails on her fingers, when she did it. The bloody scrapes.

Beth swallowed, hard. Rested her hand on the quilt.

"Thanks, Sally," she said.

And when she'd made her nest, Beth went to curl up in it. Stopped to take off her boots. She'd been on her own for a long, long time, now—and she was _sick_ of sleeping with her boots on. Of being ready to run at any second. And she'd blocked the trap door with some heavy boxes—no one could get at her, up here. Not without making a good deal of noise, first.

And those boots were _hot_. Sticky. Made it hard to sleep.

Beth figured she deserved some comfort.

And as she put her boots aside, the lights down the hill caught her eye, again—just for a second, before she turned away.

She nestled into Sally's quilt. Tried to cushion her head with her arms. Looked at her wrists, resting there in front of her face—pale in the flicker of her tiny candle.

The wounds from the ropes were still raw, there—angry and red. They almost completely hid the scars she had, from that time she'd tried to kill herself.

Beth sighed. She'd been so _stupid_, back then.

Then she rolled over. Blew out her candle, and tried to fall asleep.

* * *

The next morning, Beth decided to leave town.

She couldn't stop thinking about the church down the hill. If the people were still there. How many there were, and what they were like.

But it didn't matter. She couldn't stay here. It wasn't safe.

So she got herself ready, and headed out around dawn. Moved through the side streets, trying to slip away to the edge of town without being noticed.

Her plan was to avoid the church, altogether. But somehow... she found herself drifting towards it. Got closer and closer to the thing. It was like her feet just headed that way, without express permission from the rest of her body.

And the closer she got, the more tempted she was to look around. To see. Just to see who might be there.

_I'll just slip around it. Real fast—and real quiet. I'll see what's there, and then I'll keep going._

She was almost embarrassed by it. By wanting to look. And there was a part of her—a part way down deep—that thought it could be some of her friends. Maggie. Glenn. Daryl. It might be them.

It just _might_ be…

Because Daryl told her something, one night, after he'd started being nicer to her. He told her about the scouting trips he'd made with Michonne—when they were looking for The Governor together, last winter. And on one of the longest ones, he said they'd made it out this way—all the way up to Athens. A good fifty miles from the prison.

The place had some pretty good supplies, he said. Most of them hadn't been looted, yet, 'cause of the herds last summer. They drove the people off. But those herds had long since moved on, and left the place empty—except for the stragglers.

And Daryl—he told Beth he'd bring her up the highway, and take her there. That he'd find somewhere for them to live, for a while.

"Who knows?" he'd said, at the time, as he leaned in to stoke their campfire, "Maybe Michonne told some of the others 'bout it. So… maybe… maybe they'll be there, too."

Maybe.

It's why she'd come here, if she was honest with herself. Not just to this church—but to the town. She'd walked for days. For miles. Been through so much, just because he told her that story by the fireside.

Maybe she was still a little stupid, after all.

* * *

Beth looked down the road. At the neat rows of trees on either side. The morning light making the shadows pool on the asphalt.

She shifted her pack on her shoulder, and kept heading down the street.

When she was almost at the church, Beth saw something.

She tensed up. Drew her knife, and inched forward.

A walker. An emaciated, bony thing with long, scraggly hair. She guessed it had been a woman, once—though it was hard to tell.

She didn't want it to hear her coming. There was only one, and it looked pretty weak, but there was no reason to take chances.

The thing was looking away from her. Beth slipped along as quietly as she could, and came up close.

And she grabbed the back of its shoulder and lunged hard—drove the knife up into its brain from the base of the neck. Yanked the blade free, and watched it fall. Looked down at it, sprawled there on the pavement, as she caught her breath.

"I'm sorry," she said.

And she looked around. The rest of the street was silent. And she was standing under the branches of a big, white oak—one planted neatly in the center of a traffic circle, there. There was a _plaque_, at the base of that tree. She stepped over the body on the ground, and made her way over to read it:

**The Tree That Owns Itself**

_For and in Consideration  
__Of the Great Love I Bear  
__This Tree and the Great Desire  
__I have for its Protection  
__For All Time, I Convey Entire  
__Possession of Itself and  
__All Land Within Eight Feet  
__Of The Tree on All Sides_

**William H. Jackson**

She looked up at the branches, and whispered the name up into them:

"The tree that _owns itself_…"

She _remembered_ that name. Knew it. Two summers ago, Beth's daddy told her all about that tree. He did it while they were clearing all the old storage boxes out of the barn.

They needed that space for something different, just then. It had to be completely cleared, because they were going to put Mom and Shawn in there.

* * *

When Mom and Shawn turned, Otis shut them up in the back bedroom. Locked the door, and barricaded it with Mom's old china cabinet. But Mom and Shawn… from the moment he put them inside, they'd both been trying to break out. At the time, it gave Beth this sinking feeling. She worried it was because they wanted to get at the rest of the family. To bite them.

In any case, nobody could sleep with the sound of them thud-thud-thudding away like that. Beating at the door with their hands. And after a while, it got so you couldn't pay attention to anything _else_.

Thud-thud-thud. Thud-thud-thud. All day. All night.

So they needed to move them into the barn. They _had_ to.

And besides—it looked like Mom and Shawn might have some company, real soon. More than would fit in a back bedroom.

Just that morning, Otis said he saw Mr. Richards walking around in one of the outer fields. Said he looked like he was sick—just like Mom and her big brother.

And that wasn't _safe_. If they left him out there, Mr. Richards might bite someone. Hurt them, and make _them_ sick. And the way he was—out in the elements, just aimlessly wandering around… he might hurt _himself_, too. Might fall and get cut, or break a bone.

So they had to do something about it.

Otis and Jimmy were out trying to round him up—used some of the catch poles from her daddy's office. The ones they had to control the bigger animals, when they needed to. Maggie and Patricia were busy somewhere else—seeing to the horses, if Beth remembered right. And that—that left Beth and Daddy to clear out the barn.

And that place—it was just _crammed_ with old things nobody really needed, anymore. A lot of it was her grandpa's stuff—old newspapers. A couple rusty bicycles. Outdated farm equipment. A big collection of Betamax tapes in cardboard boxes.

And then there were some old Life Magazines. Beth looked at the one on top of the bundle, a moment. And that _tree_—that same tree was on the cover.

The tree that owns itself.

"Hey, Daddy," she'd said, holding up the picture for him to see, "What's this _mean?_ How can a tree _own_ _itself_?"

He came over, and gave it a good look.

"Oh right, I remember this," he said, leaning over her shoulder, "Well… I suppose everyone thinks it's earned it. That tree was growing there before anyone 'round these parts owned much of _anything_. Since the sixteen-hundreds, at least."

"Wow… it's _that old_?"

"Well, it is and it isn't," Daddy said, kneeling down beside her. And she realized he'd gotten his story-telling voice out. The special one he saved just for her. And she almost smiled, then—forgot why they were moving all this stuff to begin with.

She always loved hearing his stories.

"The tree fell over, once, back in the forties," Daddy said, laying his hand on her shoulder, "Actually—the poor thing toppled the week I was born."

He looked down at the picture of the tree, in her hands:

"That's why your grandmother kept the magazine."

"So it's gone, now?"

She could tell she sounded a little disappointed.

"No, honey—no, they planted one of the acorns. And it sprouted up, again, and it's still there, now."

"It's as old as you," she said. Looked to him. And she couldn't hold it in, anymore—the smile broke out of her. She beamed at him.

And Daddy—despite everything he had to worry about, he smiled back. Reached in close, and patted her cheek, gently.

"Ok, Bethy," he said, "There's a lot to do. Let's keep on hauling this stuff to the basement."

* * *

And now—two summers later—Beth stood under the tree—the second tree. The one planted when her daddy was born.

All of that at the barn. It seemed like lifetimes ago. Like it happened to completely different people. They'd all been so _wrong_ about everything, when this thing started. Thought Mom and Shawn were sick. Thought there was hope.

It wasn't just Beth—they'd _all_ been stupid, then.

She shifted her bag on her shoulder. Felt the wounds on her hands complain as she adjusted the strap. Thought about the walker she'd just taken out—how long it must've been out here, waiting to kill or be killed.

She paused a moment. Knelt down and grabbed one of the acorns. Didn't know why she did it, exactly.

It just seemed like a good idea.

And as she slipped it into her pocket, Beth looked up to the tree—its branches. Talked to it like it was an actual person. Like it could hear her:

"You're wrong," she said, "I'm sorry… but you are."

She got up. Turned to walk away.

"_Nothin'_ owns itself."

* * *

She could see the church, now. And part of her—part of her knew this whole thing was stupid. She shouldn't get close.

But she snuck forward, anyway. Slipped along the edge of the road, against a row of forsythia bushes. And before she knew it, she was in front of the building. Looking up at the grey stone from the wrong side of the iron fence.

The church looked empty. The grass was tall and uncut. Nothing was moving. There was a bell tower—but it was burned out and crumbled. The rest looked pretty much ok.

Someone might be in there. Maybe.

Maybe not.

She scanned the yard—noticed something on the far side—half-hidden in the grass. Walked over to check it out.

Spools of concertina wire. Someone had brought those, here. Someone who wanted to fortify the fence.

"You're plannin' to stay," she whispered.

She inched around the corner, and started moving along the side of the building. Started hearing something, in the distance.

The sound of a hammer—someone working in the yard. Her heart lurched, and she slipped back a bit—against the bushes. Crouched down low. Tried to make sure she wouldn't be seen.

Here at the side, there were a row of pikes worked in between the bars on the fence—buried deep in the dirt and angled out, so they'd catch any walkers who ran onto them.

They had fences at the prison, like that.

But no. _No_. She wasn't stupid. Not anymore. She wasn't going to think that way.

It was too dangerous. She had to _go_. And Beth was about to turn away and head off, when she noticed the statue in the yard—half-buried in the grass, off by the far edge of the fence.

It was the Virgin Mary. And someone had dropped a beaten-up, old sheriff's hat over her head.

It was too big for the statue. Covered her whole face. Right down to her outstretched arms, poking out under the brim. It practically swallowed her up—made it so she was completely blindfolded.

Beth stared at it. The hat. Her lips twitched. It didn't seem real.

"_Carl_…"

She whispered his name to herself. Reached out towards it, as if she could touch the thing, way on the other side of the fence.

And in that moment, she heard his voice. _Carl_. She'd know it anywhere. He said something to someone, and laughed.

Beth spun towards the sound. Started moving faster.

"Carl," she said—a little louder. She was having trouble speaking. Could barely get the word out.

And there he was. Standing next to Daryl, with one of those pikes in hand. Getting ready to plant it, there, on the other side of the fence.

Neither of them saw her—not right away. So she just looked at them. Took it in. Carl turning to Daryl—pointing to the ground. Asking him for something they needed, lying there in the grass.

And she bit her lip. Felt it trembling. Swallowed, hard. Just seeing them made her want to cry.

Her voice cracked a bit, as she tried to speak up, again:

"_Carl_."

He looked up, and froze in place. Daryl looked up a moment later.

And for a second, nobody said anything. She felt the tears in her eyes, and smiled.

Carl sprang to life in an instant.

"_Beth!_" he shouted—and all at once, he took off running—out to the gate, so he could get to her. It was on the other side of the building, so after a few seconds, he disappeared around a corner.

And she and Daryl were alone.

She looked him over. He really looked… the same. Same as ever. He had one of those pikes in one hand—a hammer in the other.

"Daryl," she said. Stepped forward.

He didn't say anything. Didn't look at her. Was staring down—into the grass. Wouldn't meet her eyes.

"_Daryl_… I—"

Carl slammed into her side, and all at once, there were a pair of arms wrapped around her. And she forgot all about Daryl, then. Tensed in Carl's grip.

Beth didn't realize it, but she let go of her bag, and it slid down her arm, onto the ground.

Nobody had touched her since she escaped. Her throat tightened, and her mind was a grey blur.

"Oh my _God_, _Beth_…" Carl said, "It's _you_."

Somehow—hearing her own name, like that… It started bringing Beth back to herself. She swallowed the tension, turned, and wrapped her arms around him.

And it was good. It was _Carl_.

Someone she _knew_. Someone she loved.

She felt the tears running down her face, but she didn't pull back to wipe them away.

"I never thought I'd see you again," she whispered. And Carl—he buried his face against her shoulder. In her hair. Clung tight.

As they talked, they didn't look at each other. Just held each other close.

"And Maggie…" Beth said, "Maggie and Glenn… are they—"

"—Yeah—yeah, they're here. They're ok. Some of us—some of us are."

He trailed off, a moment. So she just held him. Felt the weight of him—warm and solid against her. He was even taller, now, than she remembered. Stronger.

"God, Beth… _so much's_ happened since the prison… and how'd you _find us?_ I mean, we thought—we thought you were _dead_."

And she looked past his shoulder, then. Over through the fence. Daryl was still standing there, just where he'd been when she walked up. He still had that pike in his hand, and the hammer. Just stood there with them, and didn't move.

Behind him, she heard a door opening. Voices. The others were coming out. They'd heard the commotion in the yard.

And suddenly, she wasn't as excited as she was before. What Carl said echoed in her mind:

_We thought you were dead._

They'd given up on her long ago—as she knew they would. Of course they would. They _had_ to. There was no other option, in this world.

So now… now they'd want to know everything. Maggie would. Glenn would. They'd want to know everything that happened.

Why she wasn't dead.

It sank in, and dulled the giddy thrill that had been coursing through her. They'd ask questions. They'd want to know.

And she must look _terrible_. She couldn't remember the last time she'd bathed. She was caked with dirt. Blood from the walkers. Blood from her wounds. None of that seemed so important when she was alone.

Beth touched Carl's hair—tried to comfort herself. But she remembered those marks on her wrists while she did it. The heavy, blood-caked lesions seared deep into her hands.

She remembered them, and knew Daryl was watching. Knew the others would see them, soon after.


	2. Just Another Dead Girl

___Chapter two for you, today. I've been putting a ton of work into this, and I'm quite pleased with it._

_****__A reminder: this fic comes with a strong trigger warning. It frankly discusses violent themes, sexual and otherwise. It won't be graphic, but it will continually return to these themes. If you are concerned that would upset you, you shouldn't read the fic. I don't want to cause you any distress or anxiety. If you aren't sure if you should read it, you can PM me and I can answer any questions you have._

* * *

_Just Another Dead Girl_

Beth sat next to Bob Stookey on an ugly, pea-green sofa—alone, together, in the pastoral office. One that the church people must've used for things like deacon's meetings. First confessions. Marriage counselling.

She could hear his breath. Feel the warmth from his leg, a few inches away from her own. And it was almost _disorienting_—being there next to someone. A normal person—a guy she said hi to in the mornings, back at the prison.

Back home.

One of the last days, there—before people started getting sick, and things went bad, Bob handed her a cup of coffee at breakfast. And Beth _hated_ coffee—had always thought the stuff was gross. Whenever she tried to have any, she couldn't pour enough sugar in it. Shawn used to tease her, for that.

But when Bob offered her that mug, she took it right away. Drank it down—right to the bitter dregs.

He was pretty new at the prison—had only been there a couple weeks. And that meant he didn't _know_ her, when she was younger. Didn't know what she was like, back at the farm. And so she hoped the coffee might make her seem like a grown-up, to him. One of the adults, not one of the kids.

And now—at the church—Bob was working on her hands. Trying to clean them up, and make sure they were healing ok. He held them, lightly, and inspected her wounds.

"There's some splinters under the skin." he said, holding her fingers up, "Pieces that got buried when the scrapes healed over."

And he turned her hands—angling them towards the light, palm first. Leaned in close, so she could feel his breath on her skin. And her fingers made a sort of fence, between them. Like the one between her, Carl, and Daryl, when she met them outside in the yard.

She could hear the hammering out there, still. Looked towards the window. She couldn't see the two of them, outside. But she knew they were close.

When she turned back, Bob was staring right at her. She met his eyes, on the other side of her fingers. And for a moment, Beth thought he was going to ask about the splinters, and the cuts. The cracked fingernails.

How they got that way.

But he didn't. He didn't say _anything_, really.

The sound of that hammering filled the silence—muted and far away.

* * *

From the moment the men took her, Beth spent all her time with them blindfolded.

In the mortuary, there was a split second when she thought she saw some faces, in the dark. But then her arms were pinned, and they covered her eyes with something, and that was it.

So even weeks later, she never saw the place they brought her, and held her captive—not until the day she escaped. All she could see was the light filtering through the cotton they'd tied over her face.

Hours would go by. Days. It'd get brighter at sunrise, and darker at sunset. She'd see muffled shapes, walking around her—indistinct and cloudy. And that was all.

But she could hear, and touch, and smell—so she learned some things. She knew they were holding her in a barn—took her straight to some farm or other, and forced her up the hayloft ladder, with a gun at her back. And they kept her up there the whole time—bound her hands behind her, so she couldn't really move them.

And if she tried to walk around much, she'd be sure to pitch herself right over the edge of the hayloft. Onto the dirt, who-knows-how-far below.

* * *

After a moment, looking at each other between Beth's fingers, Bob cleared his throat.

"I'm gonna try and tease the splinters out. It shouldn't hurt too bad, ok?"

"Ok," she said, quietly.

He used a small scalpel, heated under a lighter. Lined it up over a dark, scarred patch on her skin, and slipped it underneath the surface.

Beth winced when he made the first cut—swift and shallow. Felt a little dizzy, looking at the blood as it started to trickle down her hand.

But the thing was—no matter how much happened since Bob gave her that coffee mug—Beth still didn't want him to see her flinch.

So she held steady.

And he started teasing out some of the splinters, then. Squeezing against the incisions, slowly, and probing for debris.

It hurt a lot worse than he said it would. Which, in Beth's experience, was the way that most things tend to go.

* * *

Every so often, one or two of the men came up the ladder, and into the hayloft. She'd hear their footfalls, coming closer through the barn. The boots on the rungs, as they climbed.

But even when she was alone, she could hear them close by. Keeping careful watch. The walls were thin and old—rough wood, with gaps in places where the wind blew through. So she could hear the footsteps all around her, from outside. There was _always_ someone nearby.

Still… _sometime_, they'd be bound to slip up. Leave her alone, for a while. All she had to do was wait. And, after that… that hayloft ladder was all that stood between her and freedom. They didn't keep the barn door locked—it wasn't even _shut_. She could feel the wind floating in over her face from outside. Smell the grass, and the flowering trees. If their attention waned… there'd be a chance.

That's what she had to focus on. Waiting. All those lessons from childhood came back to her.

_Patience is a virtue. Good things come to those who wait._

Her father, reading the Psalms to her on a Sunday afternoon, while she peeled vegetables in the kitchen:

"_I choose the appointed time;__it is I who judge uprightly.__When the earth and all its people quake, __it is I who hold its pillars __firm."_

She needed to find that appointed time. It would come.

* * *

As Bob worked on her, Beth tried to imagine him as a field medic, way back before the walkers. When he was a soldier in a different war, working on shrapnel wounds at some military base. Way off in a strange, foreign country on the other side of the world.

"Just a little more…" he whispered.

He leaned in close with the scalpel. Pressed gently on the skin, and teased another piece of wood out against the blade. It was so small she couldn't see it on the tip of the knife in his hand.

And he wiped away her blood with a cool, damp cloth. Wrapped her hands in it, and patted at them, gently.

"There… I think that's the last of it," he said, "Nothing wrong, here, that time won't heal."

And he chatted to her a little, while he cleaned the wounds. Dressed them with gauze. He told her about who was with them, and how they got here. Carl, Carol, Michonne, and Rick. Maggie, Glenn, Daryl, and Judith. How they all found each other, and some of what happened at the place called Terminus.

How bad it was.

A lot of the prison group never made it that far. They didn't know what happened to all of them. And he said that after they got free from Terminus, Sasha and Tyreese left with some newcomers. A soldier, and his friends. A woman Glenn met on the road.

And Sasha—Bob seemed sad when he said her name. Like he was remembering something he'd lost.

Finally—when he was about finished working on her—he went back to talking about the business at hand:

"These wounds're healing up pretty good, all told. You treat 'em with anything while you were out there?"

She stared down at them. The fresh bandages. The skin, peeking out beneath them, riddled with scars.

"I just pulled the bigger splinters out. Tried to keep 'em clean, best I could…"

Bob stood up. Gathered his things.

"You did really well."

She didn't think he was talking about the wounds. Not really. And Beth didn't know Bob well, but she could tell that he was a gentle man.

She'd always been good at sensing kindness, wherever it hid.

Bob went to the door, med kit tucked under his arm. Stopped there, and looked at her. Didn't say anything.

So Beth did:

"Thank you."

He nodded. Almost stepped out. But he stopped himself. Turned back.

"Are you hurt anywhere else…? Anything else you want me to look at?"

"No," Beth said, folding her hands into her lap, "No. I'm fine."

* * *

Some afternoons, the men would all gather together in the barn. They'd drink, and talk, and joke around.

One day, they read her diary to each other, aloud.

"Hey—keep going," one of the voices said, "What else it say in there, Bill?"

"Let's see…"

The sound of rustling paper—a page, turning. Cicadas, in the grass outside.

"_Judy's gassy and she won't let me go to sleep_…"

One of the men snorted.

"Not _that_—somethin' _good_."

"_Ain't_ nothin' good in this thing. It's shit."

"How 'bout that kid, Zack—he ever fuck her?"

"Lemme look..."

Silence. The sound of Bill flipping the pages. People shifting around. They were sitting on hay bales, probably—in a circle. Had their pet dog at their feet. She could hear it moving a bit—hear the collar jingling, off and on.

Time passed. Someone coughed. Finally, someone spoke up:

"… you sure Bill can _read?_"

And there was laughter, then. Bill's good-natured cursing, in return. He told his buddies to go fuck themselves, with a smile in his voice.

But then he flipped another page, and stopped.

"Hey, I got one."

Bill put on a dramatic falsetto, and started to read:

"_Thank God Maggie's ok. I've been so worried I couldn't eat anything. When they didn't show up after the run, and it started getting dark, I got the worst feeling. I feel bad sayin' it—but I figured they had to be dead_."

She heard one of them spit on the ground, then. A good volume, from deep in the throat.

"Which one' s Maggie, again?"

"_I_ _dunno_—shut up and listen."

Bill cleared his throat.

"_It turned out they just got stuck out of the prison, overnight. Had to detour 'round a big herd on the freeway_. _But the thing is… when they came back, Glenn didn't come see me. Maggie did, of course—but even with how long they were gone, he didn't say hello or anything. And it makes me feel bad, you know? He's so close with Daddy and he makes Maggie so happy, but it's like he doesn't notice me, most of the time._"

The dog was running around, now. She could hear it panting. Heard it shake. And she listened to the birdsong outside. Tried to ignore the voices, and focus on the sunlight drifting through the blindfold.

All she had to do was wait.

"_I've been thinking about why Glenn's like that. Maybe it's 'cause of his sisters. Maggie told me he grew up with a lot of 'em. And they're all gone, now. So maybe he's just not ready to have a new one, yet_."

And—out of nowhere—a noise.

_Thud_.

It shook the wall of the barn at her back, and she flinched.

Again.

_Thud_.

A tennis ball. They were throwing a tennis ball for the dog. It barked, once, and ran. She could hear the scrabbling of its paws on the dirt floor.

"C'mon—_go get it, boy!_"

They were… being _guys_. Shooting the shit—that's how Otis would've put it. Could've been a Saturday afternoon at any of the neighboring farms, back home—except instead of reading her diary, they'd be listening to a baseball game on the radio.

She heard someone pop the top off a beer, or a can of soda. Wondered if it could possibly be any good, by now.

Spring was turning into summer, and it was starting to get hot. So maybe they sank their beer in a stream bed, to chill the cans. Make them taste fresh, and cool—like drinks should be in hot weather.

* * *

Bob left her, and Maggie came in. Brought her a bucket of warm water, and some washcloths. A spare change of clothes—Maggie's spare jeans. A shirt that belonged to Carol.

They were both a bit too big for her, but they'd have to do.

When Beth stripped down, she didn't have a mirror. But she could see herself in Maggie's eyes. How she reacted, when she saw.

Beth had her clothes off in front of Maggie countless times before, of course—trying on dresses in mall changing rooms. Skinny dipping when they snuck off alone, on camping trips. And way back in some of her earliest memories—childhood baths. Running in the sprinkler. Jumping in the pond.

But with her sister _looking_ at her like that, Beth felt more naked than she ever had, back then.

She tried to ignore that feeling. Just worked on the dirt and mud and blood, caked all over her skin. Ran the damp cloth over scrapes and cuts she'd gotten from pushing through the forest underbrush. Bug bites. Bruises. Some of those were fresh and angry and red. _Some_ of them, though—some of them were older than that. All in tones of greens and yellows. Fading so slow that it seemed like they'd stay there forever.

Her body was _different_, now—different from how it was at the prison She was dimly aware of strange pains, all over. She had a dull, persistent headache—one that had grown steadily since the time she escaped. When she scrubbed at her chest, her breasts were raw and tender to the touch.

She was thinner, from going hungry out on the road. And her muscles were so _tired_. Her feet were were sore and calloused—she'd put countless miles behind her, the last week or so.

Somehow she hadn't noticed, until she'd stopped running.

And Beth wondered about her face., then. If it had changed, any, since the prison fell.

She soaped up her hair, and rinsed it. Wrapped herself in one of the towels. Maggie picked at the snarls in her hair with a comb. As the world grew dark outside, the windows reflected the room back to them, both. So Beth watched her do it, in the reflection from the glass—tried to make out what she looked like from the murky reflection, there, as her sister tried to work out the knots.

Tried to undo what had been done.

* * *

Eventually, the men got bored with Beth's diary.

The sun went down late, that evening. As it went down, all she could see was the lazy, golden light, seeping through that blindfold. The sounds below died down, over time. Some of the men drifted off—into the farmhouse beyond the barn, she gathered.

She'd never seen it, but she assumed there had to be one.

Those who remained got distracted—forgot her diary—and chatted about other things.

And Beth knew it—just like they got bored with that diary… someday, they'd get bored with her.

They'd kill her, then. Or just _leave her_ up here, to die of thirst. To turn, and flail on the wood—blind and bound—until she rotted away to nothing.

She took that in, as the light faded outside. Remembered her father, somehow. How he read to her at the kitchen table, while she sliced up the cucumbers for a salad:

_It is God who judges: __He brings one down, he exalts another. __In the hand of the Lord is a cup full of foaming wine mixed __with spices; he pours it out, and all the wicked of the earth drink it down to its bitter dregs._

Finally, there was just one of the men left, down there. Beth heard him pacing, out on the dirt floor, down below. Heard his lighter. The smell of his cigarette wafted up to her, a moment later.

And she knew that none of them had forgotten about her, just yet.

So she held her breath. Didn't want him to hear her, and think of coming up here. There was no hope to escape—not yet. So she wanted to be invisible. Wanted to be as formless as the dying light beyond the blindfold.

And this time, he didn't make for the ladder. The footfalls grew quiet. Went off towards the barn door, and faded away, beyond it. The stale smell of cigarette smoke in the air was the only sign he'd ever been there at all.

But she knew it was only a matter of time before those footsteps came _closer_. Before one of them headed up the ladder, again.

* * *

At the church, in the evening, a soft rain started falling on the roof. Beth was still in the office—hadn't seen any of the others all day.

That could wait until later. Right now, Beth just rested on the couch. Maggie had her head cradled in her lap. And they just sat there, together, listening to quiet peals of thunder, rolling out soft and quiet in the distance.

Beth was safe. As close to safe as she'd ever be.

She spent most of the day sleeping. Didn't realize how tired she was. She'd been running so long she'd almost forgotten what it was like to rest.

And now, evening was setting in. Maggie set a Coleman lantern going on the desk at the far wall, and it filled the room with a dim glow. It must've been one of the lights Beth saw from across town—when she was hiding in that attic, the night before.

The bucket she'd used to wash up was still in the corner, full of grey, foul water. Cast aside, to be tossed out, later. She looked at it. Thought of all the dirt and blood and sweat and tears diluted in that water.

"Bob told me the stuff that happened to you guys," she said.

Maggie shook her head. Laid a hand against the side of Beth's face.

"Don't worry about any of that. We're ok, now."

But Beth pressed on.

"He told me about who made it—but he didn't mention all the kids. Just Judith. Are… are any of the other kids here…?"

Maggie didn't say anything, and Beth sighed.

They didn't talk any more, that night. Maggie stroked her hair, and they listened to the rain. Beth started to drift off, again. Barely noticed when Maggie gently lifted her head. Rested it down on a pillow, and left her to sleep.

* * *

At last—after weeks of patient waiting—the moment came.

Beth made it to the barn door. Her hands were free, and she was on her feet. Ready to run.

She only looked back a moment. At the barn. The hayloft. The dead body she'd left lying out on the floor. The man. Her diary was there, near him on the dirt, forgotten. The wind turned the pages, and kicked up the dust.

_I killed that man. Me. __**I**_ _killed him._

And if the rest of them caught her, they'd kill her right back.

There was a sound—loud and bright. It made her jump, and she spun around.

The dog barking. Sounding the alarm for the others.

_Run_.

Beth bolted.

Cicadas were calling in the hard sun. Everything outside was brighter than she remembered—the light pierced her skin. Sharp pain shot through her hands, where they were torn up. Her fingers—like they were on fire. She felt the hot blood running all over them. Onto her torn, dirty jeans. Onto the dirt at her feet.

And the dog was going _crazy_. There was a frenzy of barking, at her back. Snarls. And Beth knew the thing must be tied up, or it'd be on her by now.

Her vision reeled—her legs were weak. But she made it into the yard. Spun around—trying to get her bearings. Figure out what to do, now that she was loose.

She felt a little like she was drunk. What little experience she had of that feeling.

And past the barn—up on a slope. There was the farmhouse. A respectable looking sort of thing, with a couple trucks in front, loaded with supplies.

When they came for her, they'd be coming from in there. So she darted around the side of the barn. Used it to block herself from view.

Beth ran into the open grass—all growing wild, so it came up past her knees. She strained for the trees. Pushed herself forward, through the weeds. And it felt so _slow_. Like a dream where your legs don't work right.

The barking echoed out from behind her—fainter, now.

And there was just a patch of open field between her and the forest, beyond. All she had to do was make it to the treeline before anyone noticed she was gone.

* * *

The next morning, Beth slowly drifted awake in that church office. Opened her eyes to the flow of filtered light, straining through a thin layer of cloth, covering her face.

She gasped. Bolted upright. The moment she realized her hands were free, she yanked at that cloth. Tried to tug away what was there.

A bedsheet. She'd pulled it over herself while she was sleeping.

Sunlight filled the room. Cast shadows on the wall from the furniture. Brought out the scratches on the ancient, scuffed paneling. The outside of the church was beautiful—nineteenth century gothic stone. But the inside… it had some awful, 70s-era renovation, and had been left to rot, since. The whole place had a lingering, damp smell to it—like a basement. She'd barely noticed it, yesterday—was simply too _tired_. But today, it was sticking in her nose. Making her nauseous.

She sat up. Looked around. Realized Maggie spent the night in here, with her—Beth could see the nest of blankets her sister slept in, in a pile on top of the old, avocado-colored rag rug.

And the office door was open, and Beth could hear people moving around, out beyond it.

* * *

When Beth made it to the treeline, she just kept going. Running as fast as she could—dizzy and tired and desperate.

She didn't stop when her side started aching. Whipped through trees that blurred together around her.

Hours passed. She had to slow down or she'd fall over on the dirt. Later, she'd realize she was lucky she didn't run into any walkers, with the noise she must've been making, that whole time.

It wasn't long before she _did_ see some. The first one had its back to her. She grabbed a rock from the ground, and struck from behind. Sent it reeling. Kicked the inside of its knee, and struck again. Again.

The skull caved in. And Beth didn't stop to look at the body. Wasn't sure how many more there might be, nearby.

She kept moving, all that day. It got dark, and still she pressed on.

No sleep. No food. No knife. No gun.

She didn't know where she was, and it was dark. Every moment, she had to make choices—where to go next. What to do now. And really... Beth didn't know what the right answers were.

Any turn could be the wrong turn. Any moment could be the last one.

* * *

Beth stepped through the office door—tentative and quiet. It opened into another sitting room—a bit larger, and set up with comfortable furniture. A place for bible studies and deacon's board meetings.

Rick was in one of those chairs, with a cup of something in his hand. He looked up. Registered her. Spoke, gently.

"Good morning," he said.

Carl was next to his father, eating a bowl of oatmeal. Beth couldn't see them, but she could hear Carol and Michonne—talking in the hallway.

And Maggie—Maggie was at the far wall. Kneeling on the carpet, with Beth's bag open—sorting and organizing. The things Beth gathered on her run were all spread out on the floor.

She felt her throat get tight.

"_Hey!_"

She snatched the backpack right out of Maggie's hands. Ripped it away by the broken strap—one she'd tied a piece of rope around, so she could still use it.

The flask she'd used as a canteen fell out of the thing, and landed on the floor with a thud.

"_Get out of that_."

Maggie looked up at her. The expression on her face made Beth drop the bag, again.

"Sorry," Beth stammered, stepping towards the hall, "I'm… I'm sorry."

* * *

The night passed, and the light grew bright and strong, in the forest. The next day came, and Beth was still alive. She wasn't sure _how_, but she was.

And she could hear the sound of those ever-present cicadas. She was in the treeline, skirting the edge of a grassy field. Blackflies had been picking at her skin. Her hands were shaking.

Beth was dizzy. Dehydrated. Starving. She _had_ to come up with a plan.

She sank down on the forest floor, next to a log. Buried her face in her knees. Breathed in hard. Ordered herself not to cry.

She was a grown-up, now—not a little kid.

And it was hard. She was hungry, and so _tired_. She wanted to sleep, and she couldn't.

Instead, she rolled that log over, and started poking around for grubs in the damp earth beneath it.

* * *

Beth blew right past Michonne and Carol in the hallway—down past the Sunday-school classrooms. There were drawings on the walls. Crayon renditions of the walls of Jericho, tumbling down.

She needed some air. Had to get outside, for a moment.

She pushed through the first set of doors she saw, and found herself in a tiny courtyard.

There wasn't much in it. Dirt. Some tufts of crabgrass. A little sprig of columbine, growing wild in between some of the stones on the far wall.

There was a matchbox truck lying out on the dirt. A few rocks. Nothing else.

So she sat down, there, in front of the toy truck. Took in the quiet. It was an ugly, empty space—but it'd do. She could be alone and gather her thoughts.

This whole thing was going to be harder than she'd ever expected. All she'd thought about was getting back—finding the others, if she could. She never really considered what she'd do _after_ it happened.

And the others… she could sense them watching her. Peering through the windows, at her. Carl, one time. Carol, another. Looking out at her. Beth met her eyes, and Carol laid a hand on the glass. Smiled to her, softly.

Beth stayed put. Tucked her knees under her chin. Wrapped her arms around her shins, and watched the sun move over the grass.

Finally, the door opened.

Maggie was there, with Judith on her hip.

"You wanna eat anything?"

"Nah," Beth said, "Not just now. Later."

"I can bring it out to you."

"Later…"

"Ok."

Maggie settled down next to her. Judith cooed, in her arms, and Maggie bounced her, gently.

And Beth found herself reaching for the baby. Maggie smiled as she handed her over.

Beth clung to Judy, and smelled her hair.

"She's gotten so _big_," she said, "You think she remembers me?"

And Judith smiled at that sprig of columbine, growing out of the wall. Reached for the blue petals.

"Yeah… I do," Maggie said, "Nobody could forget."


	3. Expecting

_Chapter Three is finally ready. The story's starting to pick up, here. There should be something around ten chapters, in all. Thanks for taking this journey with me. I know Beth isn't the most popular character, and that you'd read my thoughts about her means a lot. This story's rather dark, in places. But I hope you can move through them with me, and into the light._

___****__And in the spirit of that, I'll repost this reminder: this fic comes with a strong trigger warning. It frankly discusses violent themes, sexual and otherwise. It won't be graphic, but it will continually return to these themes. If you are concerned that would upset you, you shouldn't read the fic. I don't want to cause you any distress or anxiety. If you aren't sure if you should read it, you can PM me and I can answer any questions you have._

* * *

_Expecting_

Those first nights, Beth dreamed of her time in the forest. Of fleeing that barn—running all day, and all night. Hiding from the walkers that filtered through the trees, everywhere she went.

She'd crouch in the underbrush, and try not to breathe—watching their feet trudge by, inches from her face. The muddy hems of torn-up blue jeans. Stained sneakers. And she'd press her hands to her shirt—trying staunch the blood running down her trembling fingers. Waiting to see if the walkers could smell it over the stench of their own rot.

They never did.

So she'd keep on running. Drink from the streams. From puddles of dirty rainwater.

And Beth felt like one of the forest creatures. One of the smallest ones, that have to hide—like a rabbit. A mouse. A vole. Something little that creeps and scurries through the underbrush—just one step ahead of the inevitable.

Over and over, in those dreams, she'd be heading out along a ridge. And she'd lurch forward—twisting her ankle and pitching herself straight over the edge. Every time, she'd hit her head on a fallen branch—just like she did when it really happened. And she wouldn't stop moving, even then. She'd just claw her way upright, and keep on going. Dizzy. Lost.

And the feeling she'd had when she was out there always came back, in those dreams. Lingered even after she woke up. Just like she told Daryl all those weeks ago, Beth knew she was sure to die. And that knowledge made a sort of background to everything she saw and felt and did.

Somehow, it didn't upset her. Not exactly. She'd made it out of the barn—escaped the worst of it. So _she_ got to choose where she was going—even when she was completely lost.

If she was going to die, she'd die on her own. No faceless man would climb up some ladder and put a bullet in her head.

So dying seemed ok, to Beth.

At least she was free.

* * *

When Beth woke up every morning, she'd think about how she'd made it to yet another day. Another day of rolling the dice, and seeing if anyone would die.

And that was the easiest part to deal with, really—she was almost _used_ to that, by now. But everything—_everything_ at the church was hard.

Staying in one place was hard. Sleeping at night was hard. Trusting that things were finally safe, and no one was going to hurt her—that was _incredibly_ hard.

She'd wake up in the night, and she'd be _sure_ she'd heard a noise. Boots on the ground, coming closer. Other times, it sounded like a dog, panting. Or that damned _tennis ball_, hitting the barn walls, and making the planks shake.

She'd snap awake, dead certain there was something with her in the dark. Something that was about to grab her. Throw her down. Do what those men did.

But every time, it was nothing. Just the pastoral office, swathed in darkness. The sound of Maggie breathing—fast asleep on a pile of blankets, on the carpet beside the couch.

And even that wasn't the worst part. The very worst of it all was being with her friends.

At first, they looked at her like she was some kind of zoo exhibit. A rare bird everyone thought was extinct, but got rediscovered out of nowhere—then put on display. Those first few days, she was painfully aware of their eyes on her. On her mangled hands. Saw them putting two and two together. Reading the wounds like the signs they were.

_Everyone_ knew what those marks meant. The bruises. The rope burns on her wrists. Even Carl. He was grown up, now, really, and nothing got by him.

Even though she'd been wearing Maggie and Carol and Michonne's spare clothes, Beth felt like she was naked.

And she was nervous—ill at ease. Everything felt… _off_, somehow. Her headache didn't fade, and sometimes she felt sick to her stomach. Threw up more than once—and was sure the others could hear her doing it.

She'd thought of trying to talk to Daryl, at first. But he avoided her—hadn't said a single word to her since she got back. Not even at the fence. And after that, he spent most of his time outside—working in the yard. And then, after a few days—when she figured he couldn't stay out there any longer… he _left_. Went out on some day-long hunting trips. A bit later, he started ranging through the area. He'd be gone days at a time, come back to sleep, and head straight out again. He was mapping the area, the others said. Tracking the herds. Scouting for other groups. People who might pose a danger to them.

At the time, Beth didn't buy any of all that. She was pretty sure he was making excuses to stay away.

Everyone _else_, though—despite all that staring, and the awkwardness… after the first few days, they started to fall back into their old habits. So Beth fell back into hers, too. Spent most of her time with the other girls—Maggie and Michonne and Carol. Carl and Rick came in and out to help her look after Judith. Glenn was around—and he was nice enough—but they didn't really talk.

And Bob—he did his job, where Beth was concerned. Kept a careful eye on how she was healing up. Changed the dressings on her hands. Tried to talk to her, sometimes, when he did it—as if he thought it'd make her more comfortable.

And she figured that this was the way things were going to be, from now on. It seemed like everything in the world had changed, and nothing changed at all.

The others left her to her babysitting. They didn't ask her to walk the fence—though there were clusters of dead pushed up against it nearly every morning. They didn't ask her to go on supply runs. And that took her by surprise, at first—until she remembered. She'd _never_ gone on runs, before. Never.

Funny sort of thing to forget.

If she offered, they'd probably laugh.

* * *

One night, when Beth was eight years old, her mother woke her up hours before sunrise.

The first thing she noticed was a faint jingle of the little fairy bells that lined the silk netting on her canopy bed. Then she was vaguely aware of a dim light, moving in the darkness. Of a hand on her arm.

Her mother's voice.

"Bethy…"

A warm hand, touching her hair.

Beth stirred in her sleep. Blearily opened her eyes, and saw Mom, smiling at her. Her silver earrings. Her hair, up in those loose braids she always wore. The sleeve of her blouse brushed against Beth's cheek—white and soft and billowing.

Mom always had a bohemian streak. Dad liked to say Beth took after her.

She sat up in her bed.

"Mom?"

Mom left a camp lantern on Beth's little vanity table. The light was harsh and strange—cast long shadows all over the walls, and ceiling. The silhouettes of her My Little Ponies, and stuffed animals. Her American Girldolls, all in a row.

And Mom smiled at her, again—broad and bright, as if she could hardly contain it. And right away, Beth knew why she was there.

It could only mean one thing—the _baby horse _was coming. The new foal they'd been waiting and waiting for—for what seemed like forever.

She'd been begging and begging to get to see the birth—no matter what time of day or night it happened.

"Is it _Bella?_"

Mom nodded.

"_It's time_."

* * *

Getting used to the church didn't take long—not like getting used to the people living inside it.

The second day, Beth spent some time wandering around. Checking it out. It was pretty small, really. There were the Sunday School classrooms, offices, and a kitchen. A basement set up to host coffee hours and spaghetti suppers and wedding receptions. There was a sanctuary, of course—but they didn't really use it for anything. The first few weeks, Beth didn't even go in there.

Other than that, there was just the courtyard and the bell tower. They figured the building got hit by lightning, some time since the walkers came—that would explain why the floor was all burned out, up there. So the tower was no good for keeping watch, and they had to keep a patrol in the yard.

The place had a strange sort of feeling, to Beth. It didn't get much sunlight, and it had this pervasive, dank smell—of mold and wet. She didn't think she'd ever be able to get used to. it

And that day, it filled her nose as she wandered down the hall, near her room—following the sound of voices, from the kitchen—Carol and Michonne, working on something, together.

The smell was worse, in this part of the church—and it mingled with something else—the smell of something stewing, on the gas range.

And she heard quiet laughter, down the hall in that kitchen. Michonne's voice:

"You know, my grandma used to can tomatoes every summer."

"Well," Carol said, "I guess now it's your turn."

Beth made it to the doorway, and saw her with Carol, leaning over something on the gas range. They both sensed her coming. Turned around at the same moment, and looked at her.

Carol smiled.

"Hey there."

Beth looked back at them. And there was an awkward silence.

A moment later, Michonne held up a slatted spoon, and tried to cover it:

"I've been recruited."

Beth stepped into the room from the door.

"… can I help?"

"Of course you can," Carol said, turning back to the stove, "We can use all the help we can get."

She grabbed something off there. Used pot holders to do it. A steaming pot, full of stewed tomatoes.

"Here, Glenn brought these back from a garden down the road. There's a whole lot of them, and they're bringing in more. You can get the peels off these ones that we've steamed. Use a towel and just scrub 'em right off."

"Ok."

She was very conscious of herself as she moved around the kitchen. Of each step in the process. Picking up a set of tongs. Pulling the first tomato out of the pot. The water was still boiling, a little, and the steam hit her face in a wave. And the skins slid off easy. It reminded her a little of that mud snake Daryl killed when they were together. How the skin came off of it, slimy and thin.

Just fell apart in your hands.

And Beth couldn't help but notice that Carol and Michonne stopped chatting, now that she was here.

Something about it... it made her want to escape. Run like she'd run all those days in the forest. But really, there was nowhere to _go_. It was a little room with four, close walls that pushed in against her. Little windows on the far one, with checked curtains. There were two decorative plates, above them, with a prayer inscribed on them in gold:

_Hail Mary, Full of Grace  
__The Lord is With Thee  
__Blessed Art Thou Among Women  
__And Blessed is the Fruit of Thy Womb, Jesus._

The words cut off, there. Beth could see the faded outlines of two more plates, on that wall. The nails that held them up. But they were gone.

She scrubbed at another tomato. The smell seeped into her nose with a steamy heat. It was too much. She was nauseous with it.

Her throat tightened, and she dropped the thing on the counter. Bolted for the door.

Beth barely made it out of the kitchen, and down the hall. She tasted bile, and prayed quietly to herself that she could just get outside before anything came up. She couldn't bear to puke in the hallway, and have the others clean it up off the floor.

And she tossed open the door, and threw herself out into the yard. Fresh air spilled over her face as she collapsed on the dirt, and gagged into the grass.

* * *

Beth's mother opened the screen door, and Beth rushed through—right under her arm and onto the porch beyond it. And she almost ran straight for the stable, then—even though it was pitch dark.

Her mom laughed, at that. Came down the porch stairs, with the lantern in her hand.

"Hold up, there, kiddo."

Everything looked strange, this time of night—there was a hollow, blue light in the trees, way off across the fields. It must've been four in the morning, or so. Beth was never out this early. And it was exciting—getting to do something that wasn't usually allowed.

And her mom led her to the stable—where she could see warm, flickering lights through the open door. When they got closer she could hear voices. Maggie, Shawn, and Daddy. Patricia and Otis.

Some of her earliest memories were of holding Daddy's hand and going to see the horses. When they got to the stable, he'd lift her up in front of the stalls, and she'd get to feed them bits of stale bread. Some carrots, or a tuft of dandelions.

You had to hold your palm out flat, when you did it—so they wouldn't bite your fingers by mistake.

And Beth—she was always a little scared of _riding_ the horses. They were so big, and she was so small. That was more Maggie's thing, than hers.

But she loved them, all the same.

Mom paused in the doorway. Leaned over Beth, so she could talk to her eye to eye.

"Now stay _quiet_ in there, Beth," she said, "Stay out of Dad's way, and just watch, ok?"

Beth nodded. Her mom smiled and patted her cheek.

"This is going to be _special_," she said.

* * *

Beth wiped at her mouth. Tried not to look down at the mess on the ground—in case it made her start up all over again.

It was only seconds before she felt a hand on her shoulder. Glenn. She sensed movement behind his arm—at her back, by the door. Carol, or Michonne, or both. Come to watch and see if she was alright.

Glenn patted her arm. Looked down at her with concern on his face.

"You ok, Beth?"

And she looked at the grass, then. At the mess of what she'd eaten that morning, seeping into the ground.

"I'm fine," she said.

* * *

The moment they walked into the stable, Beth sensed something was wrong. It was something about the feeling in the air. The tone of her father's voice, as he talked Patricia through the birth.

Everyone was leaning in close—Shawn and Maggie. Otis. They were watching Dad and Patricia _doing_ something in one of the stalls. Beth couldn't see Bella too well—everyone was standing between her and whatever was going on. She could just see one of her back hooves. A bit of her tail, where it caught the light of the lanterns in the darkness.

"Patricia—the saline."

Dad and Patricia were rooting through their supplies. Mom stepped closer. Looked down, into the stall. Dad was _doing_ something, then—something that didn't make any noise. And everyone was quiet. Watching.

Finally, Dad looked up. Met her eyes, a second, through the crowd of the others.

"Otis_, get Beth out of here_."

Dad _never_ sounded frantic. She'd only heard him raise his voice a handful of times her whole _life_—and he didn't raise it now. But everyone always seemed to do what he said.

"C'mon, honey," Otis said, as he came up and took her by the hand.

Just like that, off they went. Maggie and Shawn got to stay. And Beth didn't question that—they were fourteen and fifteen, now, and that seemed so _grown up_, to her.

Beth was used to being the baby. It was a role she'd had her whole life.

After a moment, Otis scooped her up in his strong arms. And he took her the long way around—towards the back door, all the way across the stable. And she knew he was trying to keep her from seeing whatever was going on, at the front. And when he spoke to her, she could feel his breath on her cheek.

"Lemme take you to the kitchen, and we'll have some ice cream."

* * *

Sometime during the second week, Maggie stopped sleeping in the pastoral office. Went back to one of the Sunday School classrooms, with Glenn.

So Beth was on her own, again.

She didn't know how to feel about that. A lot of her liked the quiet. And the rest—the rest felt kind of empty.

So the pastoral office became Beth's room, somehow. Her space. She spent a lot of time in there—just sitting by herself, or looking after Judith.

The afternoon on the day Maggie packed up, Beth took Judy in there. Sat with her on the ugly, green sofa she used as a bed. And Judith—she was crying so hard she was turning red.

"_Shhhh_, Judy."

She was teething, and there was nothing Beth could really do to calm her down. The noise was loud enough you could hear it in the yard—all of the others were out at the fence, working on a cluster of walkers the sound had drawn in.

Looking out the window, she could see them, out there. Bob. Maggie. Rick. Carl. Stabbing at the shapes on the other side of the fence—just like when they were back at the prison.

Beth turned away. Scooped Judy up, and she clung to her shirt. Cried into it—only stopping to breathe.

"Shhhhh," Beth said, "I know, I _know_."

She put a finger in Judith's mouth—just the tip, where it wasn't bandaged. And she massaged her gums, as best she could.

"I'm _sorry_."

You really couldn't blame Judith. Everyone wants to cry when they're hurting.

And as Beth paced over the rug on the ground, she thought about Maggie. All the stuff she'd been using to sleep was packed up, now. She'd moved back to Glenn, and a normal routine.]

And Beth couldn't really blame _her_, either.

Everyone wants someone to love.

* * *

Bella died, that night in the stable. And it was touch-and-go, for a while, with the foal. But she made it.

Daddy tried to explain it to Beth. Everything has a time, he said. Life on a farm is _always_ like that. There's a time to sew, and a time to reap. A time to be born, and a time to die.

The afternoon after it happened, Beth's mom took her to meet the new foal. She was a pretty shade of brown. Had good proportions. Beth decided she liked her, right away. Reached out—hoping she'd come over on those wobbly legs, and sniff her hand.

But as she did it, the stable door banged in the wind, and the foal startled. Rushed into the back of the stall, and hid.

Mom chuckled, at that.

"She's really skittish, this one."

And she was—always would be. It's why they ended up naming her Nelly. Nervous Nelly.

Beth looked to her mother. Watched her, watching Nelly in the stall.

"Is it 'cause she don't got a mom?"

Mom shook her head. Didn't turn, but stroked Beth's hair, a moment. So Beth pressed on.

"Cause it's _true_," Beth said, "She _don't_ got one. Or a dad, either."

At the time, Beth was a bit unclear on how these things worked. She knew she'd never heard anyone mention a daddy horse. So she figured that somehow you didn't _need one_, maybe.

Nelly inched forward, again. And Beth reached out her hand, and hoped she'd come for it.

"There's no way to tell why she's like that—not for sure," Mom said, "Sometimes things are… just the way they are..."

Beth nodded. Tried to take that in. And in that moment, Nelly came up to her. Sniffed her hand, and Beth giggled.

Mom stroked her hair again, and—out of nowhere—she corrected Beth's grammar, like she sometimes did:

"Remember—it's not '_don't got'_, Beth—it's '_doesn't have_.'"

* * *

One evening on the third week, Beth sorted through her things. She'd been keeping them hidden behind the sofa in the pastoral office—all stuffed in the bag she'd carried on the road. The one with the broken strap, tied up with a piece of rope.

Earlier that afternoon, Michonne brought her some new supplies. Her own hairbrush, and a nice toiletry case. Some pretty t-shirts with lace on the hems. Size extra-small, petite. And it was a good thing she did—a lot of Beth's stuff from the road was so beat up, there was no point in keeping it.

So she had to decide what she was going to hang onto, and what she was going to throw away.

As she held the bag, she realized she really couldn't bear to _part_ with anything. She'd _earned_ this stuff, and it was _hers_. The engraved flask—full of water. The plastic compass. The AAA Travel Map from the rest stop on Rt. 11. Her bowie knife—the one she'd pulled off a walker she killed. The 9mm Smith and Wesson, and the cartridges.

Like all those bumper stickers used to say, you'd have to pry that out of her cold, dead hands.

There was other stuff. A half-eaten granola bar. A ziplock bag with a crushed peach in it. There was mold on the skin—scummy, blue stuff that smeared against the inside of the ziplock. She didn't open it for fear of what it would smell like—but she didn't throw it away. Instead, she stuffed it in a desk drawer. Way done in the bottom.

Below that, there was some of her old clothes. The flannel shirt she'd been wearing when she came in. She'd washed it, since then—but it'd been worn long and hard before she'd ever found it, out on the road. It went in that drawer, too.

And then... then her blue jeans. Beth held them in her hands. Looked at them, a long moment.

She didn't get those on the road. They were _hers_. Had always been hers—since they were new. You couldn't say that about much, in this world.

She'd had them on the farm, and wore them the entire time, since. There was a hole in the knee. And the denim had gotten so it was real thin in places, over time. But she'd kept on with them as long as she could.

She really couldn't wear them any longer. They were completely soiled with blood and filth. The fabric was almost in shreds.

Her mom bought them for her one August—right before school started for her sophomore year—the last year of school she'd ever have. And it was a good day. Just the two of them. Beth remembered being excited about it. They didn't just go to the little mall on the other side of the freeway. They drove to the _big_ mall with the glass rotunda, a good hour and a half from home.

And they had food court sushi, and talked about what classes Beth signed up for. And she said wanted to start doing more with the music. Not just piano lessons. Glee club. Maybe try out for _The Sound of Music_, in the spring.

She wouldn't be little Beth, then. She could be _Liesl_, and sing, and people would watch her.

Maria was best, of course… but she couldn't try for that. The idea made her blush even to think of it. Liesl was enough. _More_ than enough. She was the oldest of all the Van Trapps. She had a _boyfriend_, even if it didn't exactly work out. And Liesl—she was sixteen-going-on-seventeen. And Beth—Beth was going to be fifteen for another two and a half months.

"I dunno if I should try _out_, though," she said, sipping on a bubble tea through a plastic straw.

Mom raised an eyebrow.

"Well... why not?"

Beth shrugged. Didn't say anything. Somehow, she knew she really didn't have to.

Mom toyed with her chopsticks. Picked at the sheet of fake, plastic grass that came with the sushi. Picked it up between them. Gestured with it while she gave one of those mom-speeches you sometimes get:

"Beth, that's not the way to do things. You gotta _try_. Always. Not for your father and me. For _you_."

Beth nodded. And mom broke the tension. Got that mischievous smile on her face—the one she sometimes had—and flung that sushi grass right at her.

In the end, that whole talk went nowhere. Led to nothing. The auditions didn't even _happen_. She'd been practicing for what felt like ages, but the walkers came. Things went bad fast, and she never got a chance to do it.

But she still had the jeans.

And as she went to put them with the other things—the useless things she couldn't bear to throw away—she felt something in the pocket. Something hard. And she reached in, and pulled it out.

An acorn. And Beth remembered—she'd grabbed it off the ground, on the way to the church.

It was from the tree that owns itself.

Somehow, it made it all rush back. Everything that'd happened since the prison fell. Being taken. Being held in that barn. Those men—the faceless men moving just beyond her blindfold.

And Beth realized something. All at once. The symptoms were getting harder to ignore. The vomiting. The nausea.

Her period never came.

Somehow, taking out that acorn was all it took to make it real in her mind. She held it in her palm, and whispered to herself—told herself what she already knew. Straight up, so she'd have to deal with it:

"I'm pregnant," Beth said.


End file.
